


Little Wolf

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [14]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Academic Pursuits, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationships, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Looking forward to the future, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Non-graphic depictions of violence, Personal Growth, Unconventional Families, unconventional pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 08:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Celeste Leslie Zsasz: the formative years, and what is to come.
Relationships: Celeste Zsasz (OFC) & Butch Gilzean, Celeste Zsasz (OFC) & Edward Nygma, Celeste Zsasz (OFC) & Iris Zsasz (OFC), Celeste Zsasz (OFC) & Jim Gordon, Celeste Zsasz (OFC) & Victor Zsasz), Jim Gordon/Leslie Thompkins, Joan Leland & Edward Nygma (referenced), Joan Leland/Edward Nygma (referenced)
Series: House of Rogues [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/646379
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am exceptionally proud of this journey through Celeste's childhood. Several scenes from both parts are from prior segments in this series, simply told from a different perspective. Comments are love. Please be constructive with any criticisms. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my original characters.

Though she won’t remember much of it in the years to come, Celeste spends many hours in Daddy’s special place. She’s very young: barely to her first year. It’s dark down here, with strange lights and lots of toys; she doesn’t understand what this place is but doesn’t let it matter too much. This is the place where Daddy is, and she loves spending time with Daddy.

Today, there is someone else with her and Daddy: a man, short and fat, who keeps making noises. Celeste doesn’t like the way he smells, but at least she’s not too close to this man. She’s a safe distance away, happily settled in her special nest with the soft blue blankie she loves so much. She watches Daddy come a little closer to the man; Daddy says something she doesn’t understand, and then the fat man screams. Loudly.

Celeste starts to cry. The fat man is making bad noises that hurt her ears. And he won’t stop.

Suddenly, Daddy is there: he pulls her out of the nest and into the warm cocoon of his arms. She knows this place, has been here many times before. This is a safe place. Daddy is holding her in the safe place and stroking her face with his fingers and saying nice things that Daddy always says to make her feel better. She stops crying and reaches for him with a soft coo.

‘I’m better now, Daddy,’ she says not with words but with her smile and the happy sounds burbling out of her mouth. She knows Daddy understands her because he kisses her forehead twice, wraps her in the blankie, and turns back to the fat man with her still in the safe place. Daddy has a scary face, but he doesn’t have the scary face while he’s looking at her. It must be for the fat man.

“This was about business.” Daddy says; she doesn’t understand what the words mean, but understands how the words sound because Daddy, Uncle Edward, and Mommy read words to her all the time, “I was going to make it quick. But you made my baby girl cry. Now, it’s not gonna be so quick.”

Now she understands the scary face. Daddy wears the scary face because someone makes her cry. So that must mean everything Daddy does with the scary face on is to punish the person who makes her cry. Daddy is keeping her safe, even when he has the scary face on.

She loves Daddy so much.

***

“You were supposed to make it quick, Victor.”

“And it would have been quick,” Victor answers, closing the basement door behind him; Celeste is curled up in his arms, remarkably free of any stain and looking quite happy at these circumstances, “but he made Celeste cry.”

“And how did he make her cry?”

“He screamed.”

“Perhaps this would not have been the case,” Iris says, in her sassy tone, “had Daddy thought to gag him first.”

“Lesson learned.” Victor looks completely unbothered by the tight-lipped expression he’s receiving for this offense, and side-steps Iris to carry his bundled burden upstairs, “No permanent damage was done.”

Iris is right at his heels, then falls into stride alongside him, “Give me my daughter.”

“Excuse me?” Victor retorts, “She’s my daughter too.”

“I must have missed the hours you spent screaming her into the world.” Iris quips back without humor, “Hand her over.”

Victor physically pulls away and pulls Celeste in close, quite nearly in the same motion, “I put her in you.”

“Oh, yes,” now Iris’ tone is dripping with sarcasm, and her expression matches perfectly, “because that was such an inconvenience for you. I must have spent hours begging you to lower yourself to commit such a distasteful task.”

“You spent hours begging for something.” Victor smirks, then darts down the hall (bundled baby and all) with Iris in hot pursuit.

***

At the tender age of two, Celeste finds something new of interest: not terribly long, not terribly pretty, but one end of it shines bright when she holds it the right way. She examines it very carefully, then touches the tip of the shiny end. It pokes, sharp on the fingertip, and she immediately drops it. A tiny spot of red appears on her finger, and she stares fascinated at this new development.

“Ah, ah,” Daddy speaks first from above, then he drops down to her level; he takes the new toy away, puts it in his pocket, and scoops her up in his arms, “not yet, baby girl. Daddy will teach you to use that when you’re older.”

Celeste doesn’t know what Daddy means by ‘older’, but she knows Daddy never breaks his promise. So she curls into his arms, his warmth and scent, and simply waits to be ‘older’ – whatever that means.

***

When Celeste is six, the bad men come and she becomes closely acquainted with Fear – a relationship she never asked for and is now unkindly thrust upon her young self. It starts with shouts, pained howls from the pack, and reaches a horrifying climax with her sister lying on the floor in a pool of red – what Celeste now knows to be ‘blood’ – and heaving for her next breath.

Celeste stares at her sister: Shakta, her friend and protector and confidant. Her voice fails her. She wants to cry, to call for Mommy or Daddy, but she can make no noise. She tries. It doesn’t work. Then the bad men tie something around her mouth and take away any hope of noise or words.

The bad men take her away from her home, from the safety of the pack, to a new place. It smells terrible. All of them, these men, smell terrible. They stink of their own skin and many other things she does not yet know. She sits in a corner, watches them, and tries to disappear. It doesn’t work, because soon their leader drags her by one arm to the phone. “Talk.” He orders and shoves the phone against her ear. It hurts.

She swallows and forces a weak greeting, “Hello?”

“_Ma belle,_” Mommy’s voice speaks from the phone, and Celeste nearly sobs relief—nearly, but not so, because she is a wolf. Wolves don’t cry. She cannot let Mommy know she is a meek little mouse, that she has no courage or strength right now. She must play a game of pretend and be a good girl for Mommy.

“_I need you to remember, ma belle,_” Mommy says, “_Do you remember?_”

“I remember, Mommy.” She answers, and then the bad men take Mommy’s voice away. It doesn’t matter. Celeste knows what she must do now.

She must play a new game.

It’s a favorite game to play with Mommy, and with Daddy. Daddy always finds her, even in the best hiding places. She likes to play with Mommy in the library, because after Mommy finds her, they always read together. A fun game, a wonderful game, but there is always a lesson after Mommy and Daddy find her: when the bad men, when the monsters, come for her, she must hide away where only Mommy and Daddy can find her. She always tries to find a better hiding place, and even though Daddy finds her, the bad men will not. No one can find her like Mommy and Daddy do.

The bad men are distracted: they talk to each other; they talk about her with words she doesn’t understand but knows they must be ugly words because they speak in ugly voices; they point to the phone and point to the walls and point everywhere except her.

She is a wolf. She runs before they ever notice she is gone.

This place is full of good hiding places, but she needs to find the best one. Celeste scans the room; all the while, she listens for any hint the bad men might be coming. It’s quiet, for now. She mustn’t waste time. Mommy always says Time is precious.

She wriggles and squirms and squishes herself inside a cave of metal and trash. The opening is small, even smaller than she is, but she forces herself to fit. Once inside, there is just enough space to make herself as tiny as possible and wait. Wait to be found. Mommy and Daddy will find her. They promised. They promised.

Mommy and Daddy never break a promise.

She tries to be brave for Mommy, but she is so very tired now and she needs to cry. Mommy holds her close; Daddy kisses her hair and tells her she can cry now. That she was so brave, that she was their brave girl, and now she can cry. So she does.

Her tears are dried later, when she hurries into the special room where the pack is gathered. Uncle Oswald is there with Mommy. She hurries to Mommy’s open arms, then she sits like a good girl. This is the time for her to learn from Mommy.

“We are not without mercy,” Mommy speaks in a quiet voice, even as she holds Celeste close and strokes her hair, “and we can often find it within our shared capacity to forgive all manner of betrayals. But my daughter…my only child, my greatest joy?” Celeste wraps her arms around Mommy, trying to make Mommy feel better; she can tell Mommy doesn’t feel good right now, and she just wants to make it better, “You took her from me. I am her _mother_, and you stole her from me. You left me with an emptiness, a void, that can never be fathomed until you have carried life and then had it ripped from your arms. And for that…there is no mercy.”

Celeste wonders what this word ‘mercy’ means. She hasn’t heard it before.

“If you are going to play a game with us,” Uncle Oswald says; his fingers hold the little silver bird on his cane too tightly, “you best play it better than we do.”

Daddy comes towards the bad man – the leader, the one who called her terrible names – and pulls out a toy, one of his special toys like the one she played with at the age of two before Daddy told her she had to be older. He makes a long red line across the man’s neck.

“The bad man played a bad game with us, Mommy.” Celeste says later, when Mommy and Daddy are getting ready for bed, “Did he lose the game?”

“Yes, _petite_.” Mommy brushes out her hair: long ribbons of black hanging down to where Celeste can play with them.

“And he went away, because he lost the game?”

“Not just any game, baby girl.” Daddy lifts her into his lap; he’s cleaning the toy with a special cloth, “He played a bad game with you.” Daddy kisses her head, “And when people play games with you, or with your mommy, I take care of them.”

“You make them go away, Daddy?”

“Mm hm,” he rubs her back with one hand, “I make them go away where they can’t hurt you again.”

Celeste nods, very seriously, then points to the toy, “I am older now, Daddy?”

He smiles and kisses her head again, “Close, baby girl.” Daddy puts the toy away, in a special place, and carries her off to bed, “Not quite, but close.”

***

The day after she turns eight, Daddy takes her downstairs to his special place. “Time for your birthday present, sweetheart.”

She can’t imagine what it might be; the only thing she can see down here is another man with cloth around his eyes and mouth, tied up in the special way Daddy does when he’s working. Even so, Daddy always gives good presents, so she brightens up, “What is it? What is it??”

“Come here.” He motions for her to come closer; there’s a small table with some of Daddy’s special toys lined up in a tidy row. He crouches beside her and points to the toys, “I’m going to let you help me work on this one, okay?”

Her breath catches. Daddy has never let her help him work before. Work time is Daddy’s ‘alone time’. Now he wants her to help? What a special birthday this is, after all!

“This man here,” Daddy nods over to their guest, “did something very naughty. He took money from Uncle Oswald. And you know how hard your uncle works for his money.” She nods solemnly, and Daddy continues, “So what do you think should be his punishment? Remember, people who play bad games must be punished.”

Bad games, like the one those bad men played years ago, when she was much smaller. This is not as bad of a game, but Uncle Oswald does work very hard for his money. Stealing is wrong. If this man wanted money so badly, he should work as hard as Uncle Oswald. Then he would have all the money he wanted.

Celeste studies the toys, very carefully. Well, they aren’t really ‘toys’, not like she has upstairs in her room. Daddy calls these ‘knives’ – a funny word that isn’t spelled the way it sounds – and they are very special to him. Mommy gave him these knives, before Celeste was born. She likes that story; Daddy always looks so happy when he tells it.

She points to the smaller knife, on the far right. “Why that one?” Daddy asks.

“Mommy says you not need big things to make people hurt a lot.” She answers, hoping she made a good choice, “She hurts people with these,” she points to her fingernail, “and they are not very big.”

Daddy smiles at her, “Right on, baby girl.” He picks up the knife in one hand and steers her toward the other man with another, “That’s a very important lesson to remember: bigger isn’t better. Always think twice before you pick what you’re using: that’s lesson number one. So now,” he makes sure she’s paying attention, but her eyes have been no where but his hand and the knife in it, “let’s move to lesson number two: the how to the what.”

***

Ever since she turned nine, Grandpa has let Celeste join him at work. She enjoys it; not as much as she enjoys being with Daddy at his work, but Grandpa and Grandmama have big offices where she can work on homework or read. Some days she divides between the two offices; others, she spends mostly in one or the other. When Grandpa isn’t as busy, he takes her and Grandmama out for lunch.

Today, Grandpa is very busy, so Grandmama tells Celeste they’re going to surprise him by bringing lunch to the office. The very nice man, Joe, smiles at her while he takes the order; when he brings it back, he mentions the inclusion of some extra cherry turnovers for Mommy and Godpapa.

“Always the favorite.” He explains with a wink.

Back at the office, Grandmama sneaks up behind Grandpa and kisses him on the cheek. Then she summons Celeste forward, arms filled with boxes of food, and together they turn Uncle Harvey’s desk into a dining table with a full feast.

Uncle Harvey helps himself to the meal. Grandmama tells her (later) this is why they always get more food than they really need.

“’m telling you, Jimbo,” Uncle Harvey says around a mouthful of pastrami, “it’s not worth the dead-tree headache. One of these days, the idiot’s kink for doin’ the deed on a back-alley wall will bite ‘im in the ass.”

“Harvey!” Grandpa says, in the tone he often uses when someone (often Uncle Harvey) says something he thinks Celeste doesn’t need to hear.

Celeste tilts her head, frowning a bit, “Doing the deed?” she repeats, very confused at this word-choice. Grandpa rubs his face with a hand while Grandmama focuses on setting out the rest of the food. Celeste pauses, dissecting the words carefully in her mind, then looks at Grandpa again, “Why does Uncle Harvey not just say, having sex?”

Uncle Harvey chokes around his next bite and violently thumps his chest to dislodge the mishap. Both Grandpa and Grandmama stare at her, in such a way that Celeste must assume she has said something wrong – but has no idea what it might be.

“Celeste,” Grandmama says after a long pause, “that’s a bit of a grown-up word…what all do you know about it?”

Celeste can’t possibly imagine what she can tell Grandmama and Grandpa about sex that they don’t already know, but Mommy always said it’s rude to not answer a question. So she does.

***

“Would you care to explain to me,” Jim is standing there, hands on hips and scowl decidedly prominent on his face, and Victor can’t be bothered with the decency to look up and pretend to give a damn that the good captain is obviously annoyed about something, “why my nine-year-old granddaughter,” he emphasizes the age with a locked jaw, “knows the ins and outs of SEX?”

Victor blows a short breath across the blade he’s been sharpening for the last half hour, wipes it clean with a cloth, then looks up at Jim with just the right expression to forewarn something profoundly sassy is coming, “Because I have a lot of it with your daughter.”

Has Iris walked through the door five seconds later, it might have been too late to restore order – and the natural color of Jim’s complexion.

***

Right before she turns eleven, Godpapa Edward comes to live with the pack permanently. He looks very thin. Celeste fears he might be getting sick.

As it turns out, the sickness is of the heart and head so, determined to be a wonderful goddaughter, Celeste sets out to produce the cure. She has no idea what might cure an illness of the heart, so she makes a note to research this a little more and focuses on healing the head. For Godpapa, there is only one cure guaranteed to work: books.

The books work for about a week. Then the cure fails her. Godpapa is getting sicker: pale and thin and unwilling to change out of his nightclothes for the day.

The worst day comes two weeks later. She finds Godpapa still in bed when she comes to bid him goodbye on the way to school. It pains her to be absent at school for a day, but the week is nearly at an end and her heart hurts to think of leaving Godpapa this way. Godpapa has been reading to her since she can remember; he taught her to play chess and checkers and Scrabble; he completes the daily crossword puzzle with her every morning.

She knows her classmates pretend to be sick when they don’t want to go to school (strangely enough, they brag about it afterwards, which entirely defeats the purpose of pretending in the first place). She does want to go to school, so playing games of pretend make no sense for this situation. Also, Mommy and Daddy have taught her to never tell a lie. So she doesn’t.

“Godpapa is sick, Mommy.” Celeste says, perched at her mother’s vanity with blue eyes wide and imploring, “You always says it is important to take care of someone when they are sick, yes? Let me take care of him! I can make him better!”

Mommy finishes drawing a dark shade of red on her lips, then looks at Celeste with a smile, “How will you make your godpapa feel better?”

Celeste frowns and thinks. This part of her plan is not well thought-out. “…I’ll make him think of new things.” She says, then her frowns deepens. That doesn’t make any sense. She tries again, “If books that exist do not make him feel better, then maybe he can write a new book that will!”

Mommy’s smile grows bigger. “Did you finish your assignments for the week?”

“And for next week.” She nods eagerly, “Everything is already done.”

“And what about the lesson you are missing from today?”

“Miss Kamin is really nice.” Celeste leans forward, hoping the absence of an outright ‘no’ means there might be a ‘yes’ coming, “She will give me notes on Monday, in case I missed anything important.” Which, honestly, she probably is not going to, but she doesn’t mention that part.

Mommy slips out of her dressing gown and into a work-day dress of deep purple (one of Celeste’s favorites). She pauses only a moment more, then nods, “Very well. See after your godpapa today, _petite_. You know how to get a hold of your father and I if there are problems.”

Celeste nods, brimming with excitement, and tightly hugs her mother before darting off downstairs to the kitchen. Butch is there, along with the aroma of fresh muffins set out to cool. By the time he notices her, Celeste is already digging through the refrigerator with a very specific menu in mind.

“Easy there, little miss.” Butch chuckles and comes to the rescue before the uneasy balance of ingredients meets a regrettable end on the floor. “What’s the occasion?”

“Godpapa is sick.” She answers; as she talks, she lines up her spoils on the counter: cheese, eggs, smoked sausage, fresh peppers, onion, butter, blackberry jam, and fresh loaf. “He needs a good breakfast to start the day.”

“Are you the nursemaid today?” Butch’s smile widens at her insistent nod, and he rolls up his sleeves, “Alright then: let’s do this.”

Half an hour later, Celeste carefully ascends the stairs with a fully-loaded breakfast tray. Butch keeps in her shadow to make sure nothing spills and to open the door when she gets to Godpapa’s bedroom. He closes the door, nice and quiet, and leaves her to handle the patient.

***

“What will you do with it, Godpapa?” she asks; her birthday came and went, and now her focus is strictly for the abundance of notebooks Godpapa has filled out, following the inspiration of a few weeks prior. Her invented cure did the trick: books which were already written failed to make Godpapa feel better, but the many-many-many books he has written since have done the trick. The color is back in his face; he is not so thin now, and he gets dressed in the morning without exception.

Godpapa shrugs and takes her from the armrest and into his lap; she is getting too big for this, but not quite yet so big she can’t make a fit. “I never was,” he says, “but am always to be, and everyone looks forward to me. What am I?”

“The future.” Celeste answers. That’s an easy one.

“Exactly.” Godpapa kisses her forehead and says nothing more on the subject.

Later that night, staring awake at the ceiling, Celeste finally understands just what Godpapa meant: the future never is, until it happens. So, until it happens, anything can happen.

Anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mama,” nearly to her thirteen birthday, the days of ‘Mommy’ have gently molded into something less childlike but not wanting for devotion, “am I just pretty?”

The question of being pretty is answered with a casual glance in the mirror; though the other girls at school sneer at the thin length of legs and absence of any telling curves of her chest, Celeste sees what she has always been told of by those who love her: the brilliant blue of her eyes, white-gold cascade of hair like silk, and a smile to make even Mama’s most stoic lieutenant smile and bestow affection.

The greater question of import is, as precisely phrased, is ‘pretty’ all that might define her?

“I have always thought I was smart, clever, like you and Daddy and Godpapa.” She stammers over the explanation, warily meeting her mother’s eye in the vanity mirror, “But…maybe not?”

“Absolute nonsense.” Mama pronounces, and Celeste feels dizzy with the outpour of relief, “Now who put this foolish thought in my darling’s head?”

The answer is shameful, but honest, “Some of the other girls were talking…” she trails off, embarrassed to continue. Fortunately, Mama gives her a look which clearly speaks to an intimate understanding of the situation. It is both startling and aggravating to consider her mother ever endured the callousness of teenage girls and their wagging tongues, but at the moment it is equally reassuring that Celeste has not failed the family name by becoming a victim of gossip.

“Come,” Mama instructs, and Celeste joins her on the luxurious cushion-seat: thick velvet upholstery in a violet shade of red framed in cherry wood, “I am going to tell you as your father once told me: those strumpets talk for two reasons – to hear the sound of their own voices, and because they are jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“You inherited your father’s confidence.” Mama smiles, caressing Celeste’s brow with one finger, “Those girls lack assurance in their beauty, though they make grand efforts to demonstrate otherwise, and then they look at you – a young pup not yet grown into her skin yet moving about with grace and confidence. They grow black and cold with bitterness, and so they must tear you down.”

A frown puckers her eyebrows, “I have done nothing to deserve this.” She lets her classmates be while she focuses on what she has always loved: the process of learning and gathering knowledge.

“This is retribution for an offense not committed.” Mama picks up her brush and begins running the soft bristles through Celeste’s hair, “The motivation is without logic or reason, and so you must ensure your response does not want for either.”

“How?” she tips her head down, to allow Mama’s fingers into her hair and weave strands into braids.

“Where is your passion?” Mama asks, “While you wait to grow into your skin, you must develop your mind according to its hunger. Beauty grows old and may fade, but a keen mind is eternal.”

As it turns out, a keen mind is harder to establish than a pretty smile and clear complexion. In the weeks leading to her thirteenth year – for Celeste, a pinnacle for her life, not to be wasted and dismissed as just another year come-and-gone – she urgently pursues her passion’s definition. She engages with Grandpa and Grandmama in their respective positions on a new level. She finds Grandpa’s position tedious, though her detailed nature and a healthy bit of boredom establishes a new filing system for his office; Grandmama’s job beckons familiarity to the work Celeste does with Daddy, but she quickly finds there are politics involved with being chief medical examiner and she’ll have nothing to do with that nonsense. She rereads Godpapa’s every first draft and final publication to see if the realm of fictional literature holds any interest. For a whole week, she spends after-school hours in Uncle Oswald’s shadow, examining and questioning all facets of his business; the prospect of being her own boss is of great interest, but the business world bores her terribly. Also, as elected Mayor, Uncle Oswald has even more politics than Grandmama. No, thank you.

The option of taking after Daddy is her final venue, and his special workspace is no longer off-limits to her. While he is out running an errand, Celeste helps herself to the basement and carefully peruses the tools, the storage cabinets, the books, the binder—

The binder?

It takes no small maneuvering to get its bulk into the open; she awkwardly balances the weight in both arms before opening it across the worktable. At first glance, Celeste is equal parts confused and surprised. The handwriting is Mama’s, not Daddy’s, and these pages have grown thin and fragile with the passage of time. She glances to the upper right corner and finds a date: this was back when Mama was a university student.

Curiosity being second-nature, she delves into the contents with renewed interest. Her mother’s elegant print mixes with hand-drawn diagrams – anatomy, specifically – and detailed procedural blueprints. The more she reads, the greater curiosity grows. Finally, unable to contain herself, Celeste gathers the binder once more in her arms and hurries upstairs.

Mama is in the study, bent over paperwork. Shakta is napping, as she often does these days, in sunlight by the window. Celeste takes care to not wake her sister, and carefully sets the binder atop her mother’s desk. The movement catches attention, and she bites her lip at Mama’s unreadable expression.

“Celeste,” her mother says slowly, “where did you get this?”

“It was in Daddy’s workspace.” She answers, “…It was yours, once, yes?”

Mama slowly steps around the desk and lightly opens the front cover with an air of nostalgia. “Yes. It was my first thesis, but my advisor at the time rejected it. He told me I would be reported to the board of ethics, should I move forward.”

Celeste frowns, “Why?”

“Did you read it?”

“Not with very much depth.” She admits shyly.

Her mother nods, then leans back on her desk with a low sigh, “Celeste, what I was proposing involves a radical and admittedly unconventional method of – for want of a better word – reprogramming. It is a process through which, I argued, a human being could be broken down and recrafted for his or her betterment.”

“But if you were forbidden to move forward at the university, there was no way to test this for sure….” Celeste pauses at the look on her mother’s face, and slowly adds with an uncertain, “is there?”

“I did test it, in a fashion.” Mama answers, “You know the person quite well.”

“Who?”

“Butch.”

Celeste stares without words for a solid two minutes. Butch? Butch Gilzean? The man to whom she refers as Uncle in her exceptionally affectionate moments and never falters in a feeling of similar tenderness even when she does not so christen him? Butch has been there since she can remember. He helped teach her to walk when Mama and Daddy were busy. She’s learned to cook a multitude of recipes under his tutelage. He’s put realistic touches on Halloween costumes since she was three. Even now, at this age, he still slings her across his back and carries her around with a grand smile across his face. Butch, her beloved uncle…had to be recrafted?

“But…why?” she feels the absurd need to cry with this new development; it must show on her face, because Mama drops to one knee and cups her face in both hands.

“Sweet girl, you must understand,” Mama murmurs, “long before you were born, when I was not much older than you are now, Butch was a different man. He was in the employ of a vile woman, and she permitted him to be equally vile. Then, one day, they collectively committed an unforgivable offense against your Uncle Carmine. His employer received her due fate, but Uncle Carmine did not wish to discard Butch. He gave Butch to your father’s care, and when your father encountered difficulty managing him, I offered use of my theory. I admit,” she pauses, then sighs and continues, “at first, Butch was simply a means to an end. But after a time…I grew fond of him. He was a better man than he had ever been. Loyal and devoted, but fiercely protective. It was barely a matter of time before I could not imagine my life without him.”

Celeste wipes at her eyes. It defies understanding, that the man she loves so much – who is not only a loved and cherished member of the pack, but equally respected as among her mother’s favored lieutenants – was once a brute and a thug. She can’t even try to imagine it; the mere attempt feels horribly wrong.

As the grief passes, a new thought dawns: if Butch Gilzean can become so new a man, there could be hope for hundreds, maybe thousands more. The prisons, the streets, even the asylum – all of them, overflowing with prospective candidates who might benefit from this work! Is this it, then? Her passion, her drive, her mind’s hunger? It must be!!

“Mama,” Celeste says carefully, “do you think…maybe there are ways in which your theory could be improved?”

“The realm of psychology is vast, without limits.” Mama smiles and kisses her forehead, “And it has been many years. Improvements are not merely possible; I would say they are mandated.”

***

For the next three years, she divides her time between school, libraries, and bookstores; in the night, when she finishes her schoolwork, Celeste is bent over her mother’s binder and books on similar topics, a highlighter and pencil alternating between her finger and precarious balance in her mouth. More than once, Butch has to knock on the bedroom door and playfully remind her of the importance of eight hours of sleep every night.

She averages between six and eight. Good enough.

One day, Dr. Leland knocks on the front door with a specific request to see Celeste, the first time she has seen the doctor outside random encounters at bookstores. Mama and Daddy are getting ready for a date night when the knock comes; Butch answers first, then calls Celeste down from the home library to greet her guest.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Dr. Leland says in a pleasant tone. Celeste shakes her head, and the doctor continues, “I have a proposal for you – with your mother’s permission, of course.” The doctor hands over a thin stack of pamphlets, “The university is putting on a series of seminars, beginning in the wall. Some of the topics,” she nods at the stack in Celeste’s hands, which the teenager is already rifling through with eager focus, “I thought might be right up your alley.”

Celeste feels like Christmas came early. Her eyes eagerly dart over to her mother, “Mama?”

“Is there a cost?” Mama asks, smoothing hair back from Celeste’s forehead.

“I’ll cover it.” Dr. Leland replies, without pause, and gives a warm smile, “A passion like yours, Celeste, is uncommon even in this field. There are professors even at Gotham State who lack your enthusiasm. I…want to nurture that, if your mother will let me.”

There is something lingering in the air between Dr. Leland and Mama; words will not address it, not in the present moment, so Celeste relies on body language instead. She knows these two women are familiar with each other, but nothing beyond that fact. She can’t tell if there is animosity, but there is a thin current of tension rippling in the air.

Then Mama blinks, smiles, and the tension breaks. “This is her future,” she answers, “Celeste gets to make the final decision when it comes to investing in it.”

The permission is given, the generosity extended, and Celeste turns her smile to the doctor once more, “What time do I need to be there?”

***

At five minutes past nine, the presentation ends and attendees begin filtering – some to the last scraps of refreshment at the back wall; others to congregate by the door to discuss opinions on the lecture. Celeste and Dr. Leland take their time gathering coats, purses, and notebooks. Celeste’s notebook, in particular, was brand new when she came into the presentation and is now half-full with notes.

She politely loiters while Joan has a short conversation with a gentleman of short stature and greying hair; to entertain herself, Celeste examines the remainder of the attendees. No one of particular interest – until she happens upon another gentleman drawing on his coat at the far-left section. She sees him mostly because of how tall he is – well over six feet – and how thin he is; in short, his height does not befit his weight (or lack thereof), and vice versa. She is obliged to think of Washington Irving’s Ichabod Crane, though not entirely with the same ridiculous facial features. He is not a classically handsome man, by any means, but there is something intriguing about the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the vaguely sunken orbit of eye socket…

His hands are as long as they are thin, jutting out from the cuff of a dark brown coat which has an old-world look to it; his feet are equally large, fitted inside what might be the biggest pair of dress shoes she has ever seen. She can’t help wondering where he shops, with a body so long and thin and – as far as she can tell – absent any bit of fat.

“Ready to go?” Dr. Leland says cheerfully, a hand lighting on Celeste’s shoulder.

“Who is that man?” Celeste asks, in place of an answer; the doctor’s eyes follow the line of vision, see the man in question, and gives a little sigh.

“Doctor Jonathan Crane. He’s head of the Psychology Department at Gotham State.” The doctor gently guides Celeste toward the opposite door, where the car is parked; Celeste nearly walks into a wall, still glancing over her shoulder at the man.

Then Dr. Leland’s words officially register, and she rushes to catch up. “Head of the department?”

Dr. Leland nods with a quiet hum, “Shot up through the ranks, if you will.” She gives a tiny amused smile, “Personally, I’m convinced he only wanted the position because it affords him all the time he wants to do his research.”

“Then he does quite a bit of research?”

“Lives and breathes it.” They turn out of the parking lot and head for home, “The other faculty call him a bit of an odd duck, which he might be, but when it comes to research, there’s no one better.”

Celeste slowly leans back in her chair with a silent nod and just lets her brain start working.

_No one better…_

***

Two weeks later, Celeste’s despairing cries bring Mama out of a business meeting and Daddy straight up from the basement. They arrive outside on the back patio, where Celeste is recently known to spend time sketching or taking down thoughts as they come to her. It is also a well long-since known to be Shakta’s favored place to hunt small mammals or birds, as well as bask in the afternoon sun. Today, there is no sun, and there is no basking. Celeste is found cradling the tiger’s large head in her lap. The breaths emitting from her sister are shallow and uneven; her blue eyes are unfocused, nearly rolled back in her head. She seems only faintly aware of Celeste’s voice, her pale hands stroking through the greyed fur, and doesn’t notice Mama or Daddy coming closer.

“Help her…” Celeste whispers, even though she knows it is a lost cause. Shakta is already growing cold. One last shuddering breath, and her sister is dead.

Butch works long and hard through the night, digging out an appropriate plot in the garden where Shakta spent her most pleasant hours. Early the next morning, when dawn is only a pale cast over the sky, it is a quiet and small affair to put the tiger in her resting place. Tears stream ceaselessly down Celeste’s face; Mama’s grief seems to be beyond tears, though she sometimes leans into Daddy for support. Celeste places a small arrangement of blue and white roses on the grave, then withdraws to her room to expel her grief in painful sobs.

Daddy comes in, silent as a spirit, after about an hour; he sits on the bed with her and just lets her cry – just as he did, all those years ago, when the bad men came and she first met Fear and Grief.

The days turn into three weeks, dangerously close to one month. The manor seems empty. Hollow. Lifeless. Every corner she turns, Celeste expects Shakta to be waiting. Without the tiger’s presence, small mammals start invading the garden again. The birds, in particular, are of great annoyance. Celeste hadn’t realized how much noise they make. How could she know, after all? Shakta had addressed that problem long before Celeste was born.

One month officially passes. It’s a brisk autumn day and Celeste has abandoned any hope of working on her science project. Her mind is unfocused, and she isn’t sure just what point she is trying to make with this essay. She stretches for a long bout, then goes for a walk through the house. She briefly takes in fresh air in the backyard, resists the urge to throw a rock at an obnoxious little songbird, then goes back in the house. She hears the front door open; Daddy must be home.

She turns the corner and finds not Daddy, but a little ball of white fluff sitting on the tiled floor. It turns to look at her, bright blue eyes and tiny black nose, and eagerly begins toddling towards her. Celeste drops to her knees in half a second, eyes wide and alight with rapture, and opens her arms. The wolf pup trips on the floor, obviously unused to the tiled texture, and slides the remaining way until it lightly bops against her knees. Immediately, a small pink tongue flicks out to lick her hands, when she reaches out to gently gather the little shape into both arms, and then happily moves on to lavish kisses on her cheek.

***

“Am I to expect a call from the zoo or wildlife sanctuary?”

“Look at how happy she is, baby.”

“Yes, she is very happy.” Iris’ tone, however, does not support the notion of being happy in the slightest, “Zoo or wildlife sanctuary?”

“Look at her – she’s smiling and laughing and getting all kinds of kisses!”

“Victor.”

“They’re bonding!”

“Victor Zsasz.”

“What do you think she’ll name it?”

“I know what I am going to name you if you do not answer me right this minute.” Iris fully turns to give her husband a most impressive glare, “_Where did you get the puppy?_”

Victor heaves a dramatic sigh, then has the audacity to shrug. “Is it really my fault that they don’t have better security at the sanctuary? Any idiot could just walk in there and help themselves.”

“And any idiot did.” Iris retorts, then starts dialing Jim’s number before her father beats her to the punch.

Victor isn’t worried. All Grandpa Jim has to see is Celeste cooing over her new pet, and he’ll be putty in the paws. So to speak.

***

Celeste names the pup Bianca. Oswald, never one to pass up the opportunity to indulge his niece, presents Celeste with the full ensemble: a plush bed of blue velvet and an interior lining of wool; matching food and water bowls bearing the pup’s name in gold trim; the appropriate amount of toys to be just shy of excessive; and, finally, a personalized collar in a brilliant shade of turquoise and adorned with small diamonds. Not to be outdone, even by himself, Oswald includes a platinum dog tag with all identifying information.

Iris knows better than to give Oswald grief over his expenditures, but also possesses enough sense to get everything insured. The last thing anyone in this family needs is to have disaster strike because a thief realized this little pup is wearing half a million dollars around its neck.

***

At eighteen, Celeste graduates from high school: a vision in a simple black cap, nestled on white-gold cascade, and gown over a royal blue dress and silver heels. She descends from the stage to photographs and an audience of nearly three thousand onlookers; from there, she begins counting down the seconds until this whole charade is over.

Finally, it ends. She beelines out of her seat and straight into Grandpa’s arms.

“We are SO proud of you, sweetheart.” Grandmama says; her fingers are already addressing the bobby pins that have been pricking Celeste’s scalp for the last three hours. The hat falls loose and free into her waiting hand, and Celeste tosses it away with a careless gesture. The only thing she cares about is the diploma which is coming in the mail.

She gets glad-handed and kissed down the line until she comes to her parents. Daddy left his guns at home, just for the occasion and so he didn’t cause a scene at security. He’s putting on a good front, but Celeste and Mama share a knowing glance whenever his hand twitches in the general direction of where his favored possessions ought to be located. They’ll get him home soon and all will be well.

Butch has fixed a handsome spread when the group arrives home. Bianca, now a lovely adolescent pup of two years, bounds forward with unabashed excitement and then conducts herself as a proper lady with a simple hand gesture. The stones on her collar shimmer in the light, like a crown around her white scruff. She takes her rightful spot beside Celeste’s chair; she has learned that patience is a worthwhile virtue: should she be on exemplary behavior, a special treat of the food variety (albeit, one which falls within her high-protein diet) will follow.

Celeste insisted on a private affair, no fuss or frills, so it’s just the intimate family in the dining room enjoying the fruits of Butch’s labor. Celeste lets the rest of the conversation carry on without much input from herself; all the while, she watches Butch. Intently.

He’s smiling. Laughing. Taking compliments on the meal with a cheery nod and small dose of humility (‘small’; mustn’t be terribly demure, after all). He talks freely, with his own opinions and views of the world. Nothing about him is rehearsed or fake: it’s all there, right in the open.

And to think he was a subhuman bully when Mama first met him. Celeste still can’t believe it.

What she can believe is the new world of possibilities this tiny truth just opened. And she can’t wait to start exploring.


End file.
